Book 02 - Chapter Six:

By evening, both of them stirred at nearly the same moment.

Olivia’s stomach growled—sharp and insistent.

Greymuzzle’s answered it an instant later, deeper and far more offended.

They both froze.

Then Greymuzzle stretched, rolling his shoulders and flexing his claws against the tile. “No proper prey around here,” he huffed. “Unless Charles has arranged something?”

The words had barely left his mouth when a soft chime echoed through the air—polite, precise, unmistakably the Station.

A slip of paper drifted down from somewhere near the ceiling.

Olivia caught it on reflex and squinted at the familiar looping script in unmistakable purple ink.

Reservations for two on the roof tonight.

—C

She snorted quietly. “Of course.”

She shifted, instinctively glancing toward the exit. “I should probably go down and—”

Greymuzzle cut her off without turning his head. “Why, pup?”

“…To get clothes?”

“Why go down,” he asked mildly, “when the food is up?”

Olivia frowned. “Because I’m not dressed.”

Greymuzzle finally looked at her. Not disapproving—evaluating.

“You removed wet things because they were wet,” he said. “Correct.”

“Yes.”

“And you are not walking among others. Not in public halls. Not guarding desks.”

“…No.”

“Then why ask permission to exist?” he rumbled. “You have fur. You have skin made for sun and air. Be a wolf.”

With that, he turned and padded toward the exit of the pool room as if the matter were settled.

Olivia stood there for half a second.

Then she exhaled, smiled to herself, and followed.

They took the stairs up—slowly, in Olivia’s case—and emerged onto the rooftop just as the late afternoon light tipped toward evening.

Charles was waiting.

He looked openly pleased when he saw them arrive together, not snapping, not bristling, not at odds.

“Ah,” he said warmly. “Excellent.”

He gestured toward the far side of the roof, where the firepit burned low and steady. A large serving tray sat nearby, covered with a cloth.

“Richard has been… adequately placated,” Charles added. “So we should be uninterrupted.”

He inclined his head toward Greymuzzle. “My apologies. Live prey simply isn’t feasible here. But I hoped this might suffice.”

He lifted the cloth.

The scent rolled out immediately—rich, iron-warm, unmistakable.

The tray was stacked high with thick cuts of meat, freshly slaughtered, still warm, dark and gleaming in the firelight.

Greymuzzle’s ears pricked.

He let out a pleased, gravelly sound and stepped forward, seizing a massive steak and tearing into it without ceremony, blood darkening his muzzle almost instantly.

Olivia hesitated for barely a breath.

Then she grabbed another cut and did the same.

No plate.

No cutlery.

No apology.

Charles watched them for a moment—wolf and shepherd-kin crouched in the firelight, wholly present—then settled beside the firepit, folding his hands, serene and content.

The city lights flickered on below.

The Station hummed beneath their feet.

And for once, Olivia didn’t feel like she was pretending to be anything at all.

They ate in silence.

Not a companionable one—an enforced one.

Every time Olivia tried to speak, even just to make a comment about the food, Greymuzzle’s head would lift a fraction and a low warning growl would roll out of his chest. He never even looked at her when he did it. He simply resumed eating, utterly unconcerned.

So she learned.

She focused on tearing, chewing, swallowing. On the heat of the meat and the way it grounded her. By the time they finished, the tray was stripped nearly clean, bones stacked haphazardly to one side.

Only then did Greymuzzle sit back on his haunches and lick the blood from his muzzle with slow satisfaction.

Olivia wiped her hands on the grass and cleared her throat. “Will you… answer some questions?”

Greymuzzle huffed. “I have been answering questions since sunrise.” He glanced at her sideways. “But ask. Pups are always too curious for their own good.”

He settled more comfortably near the firepit, tail curling around his hind legs. “We have time before singing.”

“Singing?” Olivia started.

“Later,” he cut in immediately. “Ask your other questions, pup.”

She took a breath and decided to start where it mattered.

“What’s life like in the Wildwood?”

Greymuzzle’s ears shifted, not backward—listening.

“Honest,” he said. “Hard. No walls to pretend safety. No clocks to tell lies about time. You wake with the light. You sleep when the world quiets. You eat when you can, and you move because stillness invites death.”

Olivia nodded slowly. That… tracked.

“How long have you known Charles?”

A faint, amused rumble escaped him. “Longer than you have words for. He was smaller then. Quieter. Still irritating.”

She smiled despite herself. “Why did you agree to teach me?”

Greymuzzle was silent for a moment. Then, blunt as ever: “Because he asked. And because you were loud in the wrong ways.”

“…That’s not comforting.”

“It is accurate.”

She sighed, then asked the question she’d been circling all day.

“How am I really doing?”

This time, Greymuzzle turned fully toward her.

He studied her—not her posture, not her stance, but her eyes. Whatever he saw there made his expression soften by the smallest degree.

“You are tired,” he said. “Not weak. Not broken. Tired from holding too many shapes at once.”

He gestured vaguely toward the city lights below. “You guard doors. You soothe others. You pretend calm. Then you hide and ask why your bones ache.”

Olivia swallowed.

“You are doing better than this morning,” he continued. “You stopped apologizing. You stopped asking permission. You remembered you have a body that wants to move.”

He paused, then added, gruff but honest, “You will be sore tomorrow.”

She snorted. “I already am.”

“Good,” he said. “That means you listened.”

They sat in companionable quiet for a moment, fire crackling softly.

Then Greymuzzle lifted his head and inhaled deeply, chest expanding.

“Enough questions,” he said. “Now comes singing.”

Olivia blinked. “You keep saying that like I’m supposed to know what it means.”

He looked at her, eyes gleaming faintly in the firelight.

“You will,” he said. “Soon.”

And for the first time all day, Olivia didn’t feel unsettled by what was coming next.

She felt ready.

Greymuzzle rose without another word and padded to the edge of the roof.

The night had settled clean and clear over Grover’s Mill. The air was cool, carrying the distant scent of trees and water, and the moon was just beginning to crest the low hills beyond town—pale and patient, as if waiting.

“Come, pup,” Greymuzzle said quietly. “It is time to do one of our most sacred duties.”

Olivia stood, drawn forward without quite knowing why.

“Sing Mother Moon to the sky as is proper.”

Greymuzzle planted himself firmly at the roof’s edge, massive frame silhouetted against the night. He lifted his head, muzzle angled toward the rising moon, chest expanding—

—and he howled.

The sound rolled out long and full, powerful enough to vibrate through Olivia’s ribs. It wasn’t rage or threat or loneliness. It was acknowledgment. A declaration of presence. Of belonging.

Olivia startled at first.

Then she remembered.

She had done this before—in dreams, in forests that felt older than language, with stars wheeling overhead and purpose humming through her bones.

Her feet carried her forward.

She stood beside the great wolf, turned her face toward the moon, drew in a deep breath—and joined him.

Her howl rose strong and unbroken, louder than she expected, pouring out of her like something she’d been holding back for years. The sound filled her chest, her throat, her very spine, and when it left her it felt like relief and joy and truth all at once.

By the firepit, Charles watched in silence.

He didn’t smile. He didn’t speak.

He simply nodded, once, deeply.

They sang together—wolf and shepherd-kin—voices weaving and carrying across rooftops and fields and sleeping streets below. They sang until the moon had climbed fully into the sky, bright and whole, listening as it always had.

Olivia’s heart hammered, not with fear or exertion, but with something too big to hold quietly.

She knew—deep in her soul—that this mattered.

That this was important.

That some part of her, restless and aching for balance, had finally found its voice.

And as her song faded into the night air, she felt lighter than she had in months—grounded, seen, and utterly, unmistakably whole.

They returned to the firepit together, the echoes of their voices still hanging in the night like warmth that hadn’t quite faded.

Olivia sat heavily, knees drawn up, staring at the flames. For a moment she didn’t speak at all—just breathed, chest still tight with something vast and shimmering.

Finally, she shook her head, struggling for words.

“That wasn’t just… howling,” she said quietly. “It wasn’t noise. I felt it.”

Charles inclined his head, giving her the space to keep going.

“I felt… pressure,” Olivia continued, brow furrowing as she searched for language sturdy enough. “Like the moon wasn’t just rising because it always does. Like it was working to get there. And when we sang…” Her voice wavered, not with doubt, but awe. “It felt like we were helping. Like the song mattered. Like it had to happen.”

She looked between them, almost embarrassed by the certainty in her own chest.

“Like if we hadn’t sung, something would’ve been… wrong.”

Charles nodded solemnly, eyes reflecting the firelight. “Yes,” he said simply.

Greymuzzle snorted.

“Pups talk too much.”

But his tail thumped once against the rooftop stone, slow and content, and the affection in his voice was unmistakable.

The silence that followed was comfortable, settled. The moon hung high now—bright, steady, whole.

Olivia’s body finally caught up with the day.

She yawned, long and unguarded, shoulders sagging as exhaustion swept in all at once.

Greymuzzle noticed immediately. “Even noisy pups need rest,” he rumbled. He rose and nodded toward the stairwell. “Come. To your soft walls and soft bed, Two-leg.”

Olivia smiled faintly, too tired to argue.

They went down together—fire extinguished, rooftop quiet once more—descending into the Station’s familiar hum.

They got Olivia as far as her apartment before Greymuzzle stopped, planting himself squarely in the middle of the living room.

“That is all I can do,” he said, matter-of-factly. “The rest is up to Two-leg.”

Olivia blinked, still heavy with exhaustion and awe.

“When you feel ready,” Greymuzzle continued, turning his head toward her fully, “you will come to the Northern Reaches. You will visit your Pack, as is proper for Two-leg of the mighty Pack of the Northern Reaches of the Wildwood.”

Charles actually startled.

Not dramatically—just a sharp, genuine lift of his brows. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, clearly recalibrating.

Olivia, on the other hand, froze for exactly half a heartbeat.

Then she howled.

The sound rang long and clear through the apartment, pure and joyous and unrestrained, echoing faintly down the hall before fading back into the Station’s ever-present hum.

She threw herself forward and wrapped her arms around Greymuzzle’s massive neck, hugging him fiercely.

“Thank you,” she breathed into his fur. “For seeing me. For teaching me. For accepting me.”

Greymuzzle stiffened for a moment—then relaxed, tail giving a single, unmistakable thump against the floor.

“Enough,” he gruffed, though his voice was warm beneath the gravel. “Stop asking to do things, and just be a wolf.”

He stepped back, meeting her eyes squarely.

“Now off to your nest, Two-leg. You have grown. Still a pup—but no longer pathetic.”

Olivia laughed softly, eyes shining.

Goodnights were said simply.

Olivia turned toward her bedroom, exhaustion finally claiming her, while Charles and Greymuzzle stepped back into the hallway together. The door closed gently behind them, their voices fading as they walked off—down the hall, and off to wherever wolves and ancient goblins went when their work was done.

For the first time since her unfolding, Olivia curled into bed without the restless edge that had haunted her for weeks.

She slept deeply.

Balanced.

And watched over.

Sunday morning arrived without ceremony.

No tension in the walls.

No wrongness in the hum.

No sense of something waiting to happen.

Olivia woke stretched comfortably across the bed, sunlight warming her back, muscles sore in the deeply satisfying way that came from being used instead of stressed. She lay still for a few breaths, not drifting, not lingering—just listening to herself.

Breath steady.

Jaw loose.

Spine long.

Tail heavy and relaxed against the mattress.

Good.

Greymuzzle’s lessons echoed quietly, not as words but as habits that had already begun to settle into place.

Check yourself before you check the world.

Hunger is information.

Move when your body asks.

She rolled upright and stood without hesitation, toes spreading against the floor as her weight settled naturally through the pads of her feet. The carpet grounded her, familiar and reassuring.

Normally, Sunday meant softness. Reading. Swimming. Sun on the roof, half-dozing while the Station breathed around her.

But today, stillness felt wrong.

Her body wanted distance.

Air.

Motion.

She pulled on a loose tee shirt and a pair of shorts—nothing restrictive, nothing she’d have to think about—and padded out into the hall, claws clicking softly as she headed downstairs.

A couple of Hosts lingered near the breakroom, mid-conversation.

“Morning, Olivia.”

“Morning.”

The breakroom was already awake, warm with the smell of baked bread, reheated cheese, fruit sugars, cocoa, and tea. Comfortable smells. Familiar ones.

She surveyed the breakfast spread.

Leftover pizza from the night before.

Stacks of breakfast sandwiches, some mundane, some decidedly not.

Fresh fruit arranged in bowls.

Cereal options—hot and cold—with milk and alternatives lined up neatly.

Her stomach gave a low, unimpressed drop.

Nothing sparked.

She tried again, slower this time, letting instinct rather than habit guide her eyes.

At the far end of the counter sat a covered steel tray—the one people didn’t open unless they already knew.

Olivia lifted the lid.

Inside were thick cuts of meat, freshly butchered and cool, dense and red, untouched by seasoning or ceremony. The scent hit her immediately—iron-rich, real, unmistakably food.

Her mouth watered hard.

Her shoulders loosened without her meaning them to.

“Oh,” she murmured. “There you are.”

A couple of Hosts glanced over. No one commented. No one needed to.

She lowered the lid again, deliberately.

“Not yet,” she told it, and herself. “After.”

She grabbed a bottle of water instead, drank deeply, and felt the hunger settle—still present, but patient now. Focused.

Good.

She slung the small running pack over her shoulder, clipped the bottle into place, and padded out into the lobby, tail swaying with quiet purpose.

The front doors opened, and morning air washed over her—cool, clean, layered with the scents of grass, pavement, distant trees, and the slow waking of the town.

Her pads met concrete.

She rolled her shoulders once, flexed her toes, claws scraping lightly as she found her footing.

Then she started running.

No shoes.

No forced pace.

Just the steady, answering rhythm of ground against paw.

She ran easy, breath syncing with stride, body remembering something old and uncomplicated as the Station fell away behind her.

For the first time in a long while, Olivia wasn’t restless.

She wasn’t searching.

She was simply moving forward—because it felt right.

Not fast, not slow—just a steady, unhurried pace, the kind that let her breathe through her nose and feel the ground answer her stride. Pads met pavement in a soft, regular rhythm, claws ticking lightly on concrete seams as she moved.

The neighborhood slid past.

Houses with porches and mailboxes.

Windows catching the morning light.

A corner shop rolling its shutters up for the day.

A few people were out already—dog walkers, someone loading groceries into a trunk, an older man unlocking the door of his store. Heads turned, glanced, and turned away again.

A jogger.